Amidst Flight of Uncaged Wings
by Unpersonified
Summary: Surrounded by the despair of oblivion, bound by the keeping of an oath. Roxas Fallista knew all along that he was cursed by fate, but one could endure only so much. How then, had he come to fall for his best friend's lover? [AU] [Roxas x Tifa]
1. Prologue: A Path to Concluded Beginnings

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**Amidst Flight of Uncaged Wings**

**Setting**: AU. Various worlds and places (in the KH and FFVII universe) are meshed together into one single planet, Gaia.

**Genre**: Fantasy / Action / Adventure

Also contains various sci-fi elements.

**Warnings**: Mild coarse language. Adult themes. Violence. Character Death. And a store of otherworldly surprises, none too pleasant.

**Main Pairing**: Roxas x Tifa. Well, if there is a Kairi x Cloud out there, might as well.

**Disclaimer**: This need only be mentioned once. I don't own FFVII or KH. Period.

**A/N**: This initially started off as a drabble-ish one-shot attempting a never before seen Crack!Pairing. Well, let's just say things never do go according to plan.

Shall we begin?

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**Prologue – A Path to Concluded Beginnings**

Night was not now, and neither was day. Its presentation ended, the sun retreated behind the curtains of horizon, enchanting spectators' eyes one last time with the afterimage of its resplendent flaxen glory. Stars sparkled brightly in a bout of silent applause; even the moon, pale in its infancy, peered curiously around a veil of cloud. Aeons may have come and gone, and the land ravaged and reborn, but the brevity of twilight remained forever a treasure to hold esteemed.

Far down below, where undulating waves of evergreen trees rolled together to form a sea of green, lay Milton Valley. Autumn's dawn had graced the woods with a pleasant cool breeze, permeating the air with the sweet, liquid warbles of birdsong. For those more acquainted with the olfactory senses, the spicy scent of sapwood and two foreign others, discernible as chocobo and man, were present.

For along a weather-beaten track ambled the culprits of the aforementioned 'sniffing inquiry'.

The larger, its once-sleek ebony plumage slightly ruffled, was a full eight feet from the soles of its lethal three-taloned feet to its proud crested head. Leather straps encircled the girth of its belly, binding a saddle seat onto its back, whereupon several bags (of supposed provisions) hung from. Similarly, another set of straps held its cruel orange beak fast, extending to a pair of reins clutched loosely in its master's fist.

Now, its master, an insignificant five-foot-eight in comparison, was instead the greater oddity between the two. How his blond hair fell about his face, and retained its impossibly gravity-defying shape at the same time, remained a question to be pondered for the rest of eternity. Startlingly, his sapphire eyes were dull, weighed down by more than just weariness. Sparse down as yet unobtrusive to sight spotted the sides of his face, a testament to his youth.

The most distinguishing feature about him, however, were the dual scabbards strapped to his back, hidden partly by his ashen cloak. Three-and-a-half feet long, they concealed deadly blades of equal length. A white waterfowl in the midst of flight was worked into the hilts of both swords, a flagrant sign of the military kind to all and none who recognised it.

This youth's name was Roxas Fallista. And for his exquisite Arian looks of which another may call handsome, or even pretty, he was a useless loser of a nobody.

Apparently lost in thought, Roxas trudged onwards into the path, mindless of the dust trailing behind in his wake. His feathered companion followed along obediently, although its amber eyes roved around in wary anticipation.

_Scuff, scuff, scuff_, went the shuffles of clawed and booted feet.

_Tifa Lockhart. Barmaid and owner of Seventh Heaven. Dark hair, wine-red eyes._

_Scuff, scuff…_

_Now I have to stalk and probably freak out this person-I'd-never-seen-before. Great mess I'd gotten myself into…_

_Scuff_. Pause. Silence.

_Don't you understand? I'm not fit for this kinda thing. I bet the moment I turn up in her sight, she'll never wanna look the same direction again._

_Yes, it's **that** bad._

_It's all your fault, I'm telling you! All. Your. Fault! Why did you have to go and leave me with this? Why did you–_

A peal of thunder roared in the nearby distance, shaking him roughly out of his reverie. The bird made an odd noise between a soft cry and a whimper, visibly frightened. He laid a comforting hand upon its neck, and felt the muscles beneath relax slightly.

"I know. We'll have to find shelter soon."

Rain, hail, or shine, mountainous weather was treacherous and unpredictable in all circumstances. Armed with only a sheet of worn, oiled cloth and his own water-repellent cloak, they would be able to survive a mild downpour, but nothing worse. Certainly not the impending storm of promised lightning and who-knows-what-else about to sweep their path.

Closing the gap between his steed and himself, he reached into a bag attached to the back of the saddle. After rummaging around for a few moments, he extracted a glowing blue orb roughly the size of a chicken's egg.

_No, it's all my fault. If I hadn't went after them, then you wouldn't have to… You would still be…_

Feeling the bile rise in his throat, he quickly tapped the orb three times with this thumb. A shower of light burst forth, revealing a shimmering image of their current whereabouts from bird's-eye-view, scaled a hundred to one. According to the map, they should be about five miles away from Milton Village now. Following that, it should be another three days travel to the City of Everton. Where she was.

Shoving the orb back into its respective place, he then threaded one foot through a stirrup, and hoisted himself into the saddle in one smooth action. He could feel the chocobo tense beneath him, ready for flight.

"Time to go, Fenrir."

Digging his heels in, the rider and his chocobo sped off into the sinking sunset.

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Full dark was nigh by the time they reached the village. It was remarkable how a relatively clear sky could be overrun with grey cloud in a matter of an hour. Fat, crystalline droplets fell from the heavens, instilling into his bones an icy coldness even as they repelled off his waterproof coat.

From what he could see of it in the darkness, Milton Village was an islet locked into medieval stagnancy by the impenetrable fences of its mountains. Traditional chocobo-drawn carriages slumped forlornly against equally traditional wooden houses, as handcarts and collapsible stalls, abandoned in the wake of dusk, gaped their empty contents at passerbys. There was not a trace of life as of now; affairs began and ended with the rising and setting of the sun.

A worn hanging sign a few cobblestone roads down read "The Golden Hearth". Assuming that to be the name of an inn, Roxas guided Fenrir inside, under an open wooden-roofed shelter.

As he dismounted, he felt Fenrir shiver violently, flinging water everywhere. Chocobos were particularly susceptible to the cold, and the loss of bodily contact would be felt instantly. He raised a hand to rub his steed's throat, only to find it cold also.

With exceptional timing, a middle-aged woman in an overlong coat came into view, a globe of soft, silvery light in one fist.

"Ah! Welcome to the Golden Hearth," she chirped in high-pitched, girlish soprano, contrasting sharply with the lines on her matronly face. "I'm Fara, mistress of the inn. How may I help you?"

"I'd like to rent a stall for him overnight. And a room for myself, if possible." The second sentence had came as an afterthought. Delighted as he was with the prospect of sleeping in a real bed again, he was not wont to leaving his chocobo's side for any moment of time, especially on this journey.

"Most definitely," she replied smoothly, while her gaze travelled up and down his malnourished profile, coming to finish on the bared hilts of his swords. Without missing a beat, she turned back to the stable, calling out a couple of words he had never heard before. Two boys appeared, scraggly and lean, aged in the pre-adolescent years.

They must have only ever encountered mild, thoroughly domesticated animals, for they did not recognise the raised wings indicating suspicion as they approached Fenrir. Before Roxas could say anything, however, the innkeeper had refocussed her attention upon him.

"Now, if you would come this way, young _Sir_…"

Although demanded by propriety, the woman had imbued the title with scepticism, as though she was wondering about the authenticity of his swords. He knew he must look hardly any older than those stable boys of hers, which was too young to have earned those dangerous weapons by honest means.

Still, swords were swords, and he understood that she dared not question him lest he actually knew how to use them and took offence at her effrontery.

Handy, these intimidation tricks. They had spared him frequently the nuisance of hearing useless trash.

"Actually ma'am, I think– "

He was interrupted by a sharp, hissing noise. One of the boys had tried to take hold of Fenrir's reins, and by his retreating steps, had regretted that decision immediately. The chocobo's feathers were fluffed out, adding to its already imposing size, and its neck was drawn back like a spring ready to uncoil.

For a second he stood frozen in place, watching their futile attempt to calm the high-strung Fenrir. A second after found him at the latter's side, reins reclaimed in his right hand. He then jerked his head at the younger boys, signalling that they should back off. They complied at once, glad to put distance between themselves and the over-hostile bird.

Ensuring that the boys were out of striking range, he made soft clicking noises with his tongue. The chocobo seemed to be soothed a little by the sound, but was no doubt still agitated.

"Ma'am," he said firmly as he turned to face the innkeeper, "I think it safer if I were to settle him in myself. He gets uneasy on unfamiliar territory. Once he falls asleep, he should be alright."

"Of course."

She gestured for him to follow her, and he did, ignoring the muttered but clearly impressed whispers behind him. Fenrir did likewise with reluctance, but Roxas continued to make the same clicking noise, even laying a tentative hand on its neck. By the time they had entered the stable, the bird was no longer glaring, and its stance was visibly relaxed.

"Looks like you know how to handle your chocobo," she commented with approval in her voice, her respect for him increased a little.

Roxas, too spent to reply accordingly, accepted her compliment with a half-smile. She didn't seem to pay it any mind as she led him to the stall in the farthest corner, past other roosting chocobos of various colours – yellow, green and blue.

A loud ringing sound shattered the monotonous _pitter-patter_ of falling rain – probably an alarm of some kind.

"Oh! Another customer," clucked the innkeeper, picking at the folds of her skirt. "Just a moment, young Sir. I'll be back with supper shortly."

She pumped out of the building on her short, plump legs, leaving him and the boys inside. Removing his hood, he immediately set himself to work, unenthusiastic to meet the others' fervent eyes and wild gesticulations.

Unfastening the latches that held the safety straps tight, Roxas removed the saddle from Fenrir's back, depositing it cleanly on the hay-covered floor. The bill bridle followed after that, falling atop the saddle with the same neat precision.

Its bodily burdens removed, the chocobo folded itself into a comfortable sitting position on the ground, and cast an expectant gaze at its master. Roxas nodded in response, pulling out a compressed block of dried Mimett Greens – rationed, of course – from a bag, before promptly setting it in front of his steed. The latter eyed the miserly heap of flaky, dehydrated vegetable with disgust.

"Stop glaring at it. It's all we can afford now."

It appeared that the bird was none too pleased with his dismissive remark, for Roxas found his thumb to be nipped rather painfully. Wincing at the stinging sensation, he directed a heated glare of his own at his feathered companion, but Fenrir had already begun pecking half-heartedly at his makeshift dinner.

_Touche_, he thought grudgingly. _I swear; this bird is too smart for his own good._

With a resigned shake of his head, he unslung the swords from his back, feeling the additional weight of other eyes upon them. The boys were at the opposite end of the stable, and by the sounds of it, sweeping, but their mere presence made him… shifty. Stableboys had not been a pleasant experience for him in the past month.

He looked back at Fenrir to distract himself. For a rather unappetising meal, the block of Mimett Greens were already gone. The bird itself had its beak tucked under a wing, its feathered breast swelling and shrinking with the steady rhythm of sleep.

A huge yawn creaked his jaws. Well, he was pretty tired himself.

Shifting hay to cushion his back, he sprawled himself against the wall, an unconscious hand upon the scabbards of his dual swords. Out of weariness and the need to escape perception of the boys' intense scrutiny of him, he closed his eyes.

Unfortunately, shutting one sense out meant sharpening the others, and right on cue, their shrill, unsteady pubescent voices flooded into his ears.

"See dat? Da bird on de 'andle o' 'is sword? 'Tis de Risin' Egret! 'E's a Soldier, I tell ya!"

Ah, the katanas. He really shouldn't have brought them with him. They drew attention like moths to a light. But _Dextron_ and _Sinistron_ gave him a sense of… capability, and frankly, he didn't think he would be able to stand the feeling of feebleness once more.

To his immense fortune, the majority of his journey was through Vespilladian territory. Thus few questions were asked, and they let him be on his way.

"Wow… a Soldier. I always wanna become un'."

"Lass go talk to 'im!"

Footfalls of soft leather shoes loomed closer and closer, before stopping abruptly. Thank Gaia.

"Shhh. He doesn' look like 'e wanna be disturbed. Yanno, dey say dat 'em Soldiers are like weap'ns, deadly an' all. Ya wuldn' wanna go mess wid 'em."

"C'mon! 'Tis not oft'n ya see a Soldier! 'E's like, the firs' in wat… three muns?"

"'Dose swords look real sharpish, if ya ask me."

"Sharpish? 'E 'asn' even taken 'em out yet, ya doofus."

"Wube all shine and sharpish. Betcha 'e polish 'em ev'ry nite. Culd cutcha 'ead off in un' go."

"Now ya dun needa go sayin' dat. I like my 'ead where 'tis, thanks."

"S'why ya shuldn' be botherin' 'im. 'Is chocobo's bad enuff. Mus' be a warbird, the way isso egressive– "

"'Ids eyes are scary, too."

"'Is got guts, tryin'a ride sumthin' like dat."

"Pierre? Josh? Get yer scrawny behinds 'ere right now!"

"Comin', Mistress."

The scuffle of two pairs of feet departed into the distance, causing Roxas to breathe a sigh of relief. Slowly he opened his eyes, raising himself on elbows to check above the stall screen if the coast was clear. Satisfied with what he was seeing, he sank back into the hay mound, wondering whether he would be able to capture sleep successfully before they came back.

He shifted his head tiredly to glance at his feathered companion. Surprisingly, Fenrir had not been disturbed by the boys' loud conversation – or was making a very good pretence at that. With its scowling amber eyes and dangerous claws hidden from sight, Fenrir looked an almost… cute mass of soft black fluff, enticing all hands to come touch.

Absent-mindedly he reached out to stroke a black feathered wing, relishing the feel of warm silken plumes between his fingers. With tomorrow, would come a new day, and as inevitably, his imminent doom.

"Fenrir… what am I gonna tell her?"

--- ---

True to her promise, the innkeeper returned with a steaming bowl of beef broth and bread, but Roxas had already fallen asleep.

"Kids these days," she muttered in exasperation, turning on her heel to find a more appreciative client for her well-cooked supper.

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**A/N**: Well, that was a pretty drowsy introductory chapter. Still, I would like to hear from you. Any suggestions? Reviews are very much appreciated.

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	2. Chapter 1: Words Without Encounter

**A/N: **Yeah, I know that it's taken a while, but my computer has a nasty habit of deleting my files lately. Damn viruses...

A big thanks to **Jordsan** and **cerberus angel **for reviewing! You guys make me feel loved. So reap your reward, loyal reviewers.

Shall we begin?

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**Chapter 1 – Words Without Encounter**

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Past birth of dawn and into its scintillating phase of mid-morn, had gone the course of a new day. Majestically omnipresent, a perfect azure tainted only by the fleeting silhouettes of passing birds, the sky loomed over lands far and wide, all greeted with the same embrace of its limitless arms. Sunlight, pure as the virgin naïvety of youth, plummeted from the platinum sun to scorch the plains beneath in an act of deific wrath.

For divine was the pre-noon of this one specimen of fine weather – a long-awaited boon of pity from the heavens after two torturous months of relentless downpour. So gladdening was the sight, in fact, that no one spotted the oddity that was a fluffy white mass trying to creep into the expanse of unbroken blue from a corner of horizon.

No one, except a pair of sapphire eyes.

_Cloud…_

The owner of the eyes, otherwise known as Roxas Fallista, shook his head abruptly. Thrusting his gaze earthward with equal violence, he discovered the attempt at distraction from the lone thought no better. That was due to a sudden flash of pink darting across his vision, leaving pinker afterimages and a somewhat irritated youth in its wake.

_Idiot driver_, he cursed the culprit inwardly, while brushing residual dust off his clothes. _Speeding in a high surveillance zone like this…_

The target of his animosity, correct to his assumption, roared to a halt within a matter of seconds. Ludicrously pink, hovering little more than a foot off the ground, it joined a queue of other similar-looking vehicles. The smooth purr of hydrogen-driven precision engines filled the air, strangely, without the accompaniment of honks or screeches, although impatience was palpable in the two-yard gap that separated each landcraft from another.

Gummi Cars.

True, he admitted that the spectacle of whizzing multicoloured automobiles was exciting a few miles back, but he was tired of being assaulted by the backlash of air resistance whenever one chose to pass him by. Given that the Gummi Car was a rare and valued commodity back home on Destiny Islands, the fact that he was having second thoughts about their reputed grandeur did not bode well for any future excursions made in said vehicle.

Ah well. He would probably prefer Fenrir's back, anyway.

Speaking of Fenrir…

The black chocobo, tied unceremoniously to a nearby post in the light of this particular inspection, looked restless. He was scratching the earth, his long claws raking deep gashes in the semi-damp turf.

As the mood of steeds tended to reflect on their riders, Roxas inadvertently found his right foot to be nudging repeatedly, in the same bout of restlessness, the lot of luggage he had removed from Fenrir's back.

_Just a little longer…_

"Next!"

There was the slap of reins as the chocobo carriage ahead of him wheeled forward past the West Gate and its surrounding white walls into the City of Everton. Realizing his cue, Roxas stepped up to the blue-uniformed inspector, fidgeting slightly out of trepidation.

_No suspicious equipment, no illegal substances, no unusual behaviour save unexplainable twitching – I should be fine. Geez, aren't you a cheerful one, Roxas?_

He had abandoned his cloak today – what with the full, unhindered view of the Rising Egret upon the hilts of his dual blades, can there be no mistake about his identity. Much to his gratitude, the inspector had taken them into account at once, according to the response.

"Why, aren't you a young one for a Soldier?" the latter, a man in his thirties who appeared to have gone into seed, greeted by form of salute. "Name, Sir?"

"Roxas Fallista," he replied simply. Eyeing the insignia of the same waterfowl stitched into the breast pocket of the other man, he added, "Sheriff."

"Date and location of birth?" continued the inspector, keying letters into his handheld device.

"July nineteenth, thirteen eighty-four."

The click of tapped buttons stopped. Roxas immediately found himself to be the focus of a highly astonished, brown-eyed stare.

"That would make you twenty-one this year, correct?"

"That's right, Sheriff."

But the inspector made no answer forthwith, choosing instead to lean forward to better scrutinize Roxas, as though his current vantage point of observation was inadequate.

A muscle in Roxas' right arm twitched; the appendage itself almost strayed to _Dextron's_ hilt before he caught himself. He was aware that the hairs on the back of his neck were erect, and that his left foot was shuffling ever so slowly backwards. Simply put, this closeness of proximity to a stranger made Roxas feel very, very uncomfortable.

"Judging by your face," the other man remarked in wonder as he withdrew into his proper place outside of Roxas' personal bubble, "that would be nigh impossible to believe. You look no older than seventeen, if at that. May I have your ID sphere?"

Roxas complied without delay, eager to end this examination session as soon as possible. Fishing a silvery-green adamantite chain from beneath the collar of his black undershirt, he unlatched a sky-blue marble from its center, and presented the latter to the inspector.

With a press of forefinger and thumb, the inspector methodically inserted the tiny orb into a concave slot – obviously designed for this purpose – on his portable gadget. A collection of data flashed on the screen, widening the rims of his eyes the further he perused its contents.

"So, Roxas Fallista. A retired Third-Class Soldier. Training on Phantasia Islands, six months. By the Planet! Only _six months_! You must be talented, kid."

Shrugging noncommittally, Roxas waited in impassive silence for the inspector to be done, and eventually the ID sphere was returned to him. A moment later, the blue sphere was back on its chain, tucked neatly out of sight once more.

The inspector was presently running his device over the luggage Roxas had moved to the ground for convenient access, luggage that was considerably lighter now than the beginning of the journey. Satisfied with the results, of lack thereof, the other man turned back to Roxas.

"Done," he said matter-of-factly. Indicating Fenrir with a jerk of his head, he added, "Incidentally, your chocobo pal's not too fond of strangers, right?"

Roxas nodded affirmative as he grabbed all three bags at once in order to retie them to Fenrir's saddle.

"It would be advisable to stay clear of him unless he likes you."

He noticed, with dark amusement, that the inspector had immediately taken his words to heart – a good five yards now stood between the latter and the aforementioned bird. Well, at least the increased distance also helped put him more at ease, as he reattached the bags with perfectly clean and efficient motions of hand.

One, two, three. All set.

"Oh, by the way," came the voice of the older man behind him when he finished, "are you currently looking for a job here?"

Roxas swiveled around, his interest roused.

"Yeah."

"How about the Expurgators?" the inspector mentioned. "They could definitely use more numbers in their ranks."

Roxas raised a golden eyebrow. "Expurgators?"

"Heartless Expurgators. Y'know, those who get rid of local Heartless. Pretty neat job eh, getting to blast those cursed shadows into oblivion? Good pay, too."

"What about previous work experience?"

His question caused the inspector to look oddly at him. "Third-Class Soldier's training qualifies you for most combat jobs – 'specially of this kind. You didn't already know that?"

Ignoring the last comment, Roxas pressed on, business-like, "Where can I register?"

"Take this road down to the info centre. They'll provide more details there."

"Thanks, Sheriff. Well, better get going."

With a deft switch of fingers, Fenrir's reins came loose.

"Have a nice day, kid," the inspector raised a hand in farewell. "And, since I haven't properly introduced you to, well, the city… Welcome to Everton."

At the older man's natural, very human words, a smile finally graced Roxas' lips, to be mirrored likewise on the former's face. Clambering atop Fenrir's back with fluid grace, he rode into the metropolis with a distinct male baritone ringing in his ears.

"Next!"

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**-**-**-** **-**-**-**

**Later that same day…**

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"Miss? Another glass of sherry, please?"

With a day-wearied but nonetheless, charming smile, Tifa Lockhart graciously swept the proffered empty glass to refill it with said drink.

"Here you go," she said, setting the full glass on the bench top before her middle-aged customer.

"Thanks, miss," came his murmured reply, attention already redirected to his drink.

With a soft exhalation of breath, Tifa strode away, turning her own attention to the newly washed glasses by the sink's edge. A well-formed hand removed a nearby cleaning rag from its stand, with which she began yet again the irksome task of wiping, as demanded by her daily work routine.

Today had been a rather uneventful day, even with the exceptional turnabout of weather. Indeed, many days had passed like this, unchanging, frozen into an odd suspension of time experienced by only her. Yuffie was probably loitering around in some previously-thought inaccessible part of school, and Zack still trying to charm his way into a long-term relationship with a pretty girl, but here she was, caught in the midst of her unresolved feelings.

Waiting for _him_.

No letters in the last three months. No phonecalls either, but to receive one from him in his current circumstance would be too great of an expectation.

Nevertheless, she was worried. Could something have happened to him?

No, she didn't want to think about that.

_Think happy thoughts, Tifa. He's alright. He'll be coming back soon –_

Fortunately for her, the shifting glass doors decided now to sound their hoarse scuffle, announcing the entry of another customer. The perfect diversion to interrupt her hopelessly futile thoughts.

_Thud, thud…_

All mechanisms of sight rounded on the newcomer with uncanny synchronization, and no wonder. His attire of checkered white-and-black practically screamed 'outlander', and while that was no peculiarity in itself, outlanders were rare nowadays. The combination of golden hair fashioned in a manner best described as 'hedgehog', and startling blue eyes, proclaimed him to be of northern origin – perhaps someplace on the continent of Aria; her geography was not very good.

But the most fascinating thing about him, was his youth. Many of those who visited Seventh Heaven were in their mid-twenties, still more at beyond thirty. However, his face, adorned with delicately pretty features, was smooth, having yet a use for the razor. If there _was_ a contradictory sign to his apparent age, it would be that his eyes were too haunted – as though he had seen much more than he was meant to.

The ravages of war, maybe? Was he a refugee, an unwitting victim of the chaos wrought upon his nation by Providential tyranny?

She shook her head. Now was not the time to draw up conclusions about someone she had never met before. A man's business was his own, and whether this youngster would ever show up here again, or if his ancestry was truly Arian, she understood that it was not her place to discuss it.

As though he knew the extent of her thoughts, his eyes flew to her, capturing the entirety of her image in one sweeping glance. Already oddly unnerved by this mere act of simple curiosity, she was totally unprepared for the constriction in her lungs as he sauntered past the throng of humanity to settle himself in the bench corner seat.

Of all the decisions he had undertaken upon he setting foot in her bar, he had to choose the one of utmost familiarity to her.

--- ---

_His extraordinary, chocobo-like tufts of straw-hued hair attracting no small amount of attention, the young man paused in the doorway, eyeing his surroundings warily. Or perhaps speculating on whether he had wandered into the wrong building by accident. Before him lay a sea of inquiring eyes, a sea that must have looked not too welcoming, for he picked his way through to the farthest seat along the bench row._

_The farthest seat right in the corner where no one would see him._

_Now, if this display of unsociable behaviour was not indication enough that he did not want to be pestered, his locked elbows and apparent interest in the whitewashed walls would do. Or at least, that was what Tifa thought, but entering a bar and not ordering something was an anomaly she was not willing to add to her list of experiences just yet._

_Especially not when she had opened Seventh Heaven only six weeks prior. _

_Smoothing the front of her skirt unconsciously, she approached him with an air of determination._

"_Would you like anything, mister?"_

_He transferred his gaze from the dim walls to her face, and she was temporarily stunned for a moment. His shimmering opal eyes were wide, and his lips, slightly parted – he was the very image of an innocent child beholding some sacred vision in pure, unadulterated awe. A blush rose to her cheeks; never had she encountered such a look that would have easily put flattery to shame. _

_Any treasured moments shared between strangers never did last, however. Within the space of five seconds, they were both staring in opposite directions, both thoroughly embarrassed._

_It was no occasion of rarity, really, to have men stare at her. Usually the stare, or rather, the leer, was directed at one of two places – her chest, or her behind. Why was she to be branded a creature of exhibit if the male mind just happened to become fixated on those particular aspects of female anatomy? Besides, it kept her customers, the majority of which were of the opposite gender, in regular attendance._

_But this stranger… To call the admiration in his eyes a feat of deception would be to run headlong into a stone wall – pain of rebound included – and claim it was not there. Such openness of honesty hardly existed anywhere. And if the latter had her heart melted into a puddle of goo, it certainly did not help that he was beautiful, either._

_Of course, the option she had not wanted to consider was that she may have intimidated him enough so to reduce him into this state of wide-eyed asininity._

"_W-what do you offer here?" he finally plucked up the courage to say._

_Okay, she was beginning to suspect that she did._

"_Food and drinks, silly." Much to her horror, she realized that her words had adopted a flirtatious quality of their own. "This _is_ a bar, after all."_

_His gaze returned to her, his eyebrows twitching. _

"_A… bar?" he pronounced the word inexpertly, as though trying it out for the first time._

_She tilted her head inquisitively. "Why, haven't you heard that before?"_

_He seemed to find the bench top very interesting all of a sudden._

"_As a matter of fact, I… haven't."_

"_Stop trying to pull my leg." She wanted to kick herself – since when had she ever spoken with such sugar in her voice? "You haven't? Seriously?"_

"_Well, miss," his beryl eyes jerked back up to hers, mortifyingly scandalized, "it would be highly improper for me to do so. Besides," he added, pink creeping onto his face, "with this table separating us, I don't think it's possible – "_

_He was interrupted by a rich laugh when she caught the gist of what he was about to say at last. A shy smile appeared on his lips, made all the more captivating by its owner's discomfiture. _

"_You sure know to crack a joke, mister," she complimented, still laughing._

--- ---

She sighed at the memory. That was their first meeting, four years ago. She was nineteen then, and he, twenty. He was so different from the others, a simple country boy who enjoyed the equally simple exhilaration of riding a chocobo barebacked. A far cry from the typical bachelor in the neighbourhood, flaunting their shiny Gummi models and wannabe attempts at suave chivalry.

Zack liked him. Yuffie liked him. Her father liked him. _Her father_, who had a keen eye for imperfection and a tongue ready to disapprove. He was practically family himself. All it would take was an exchange of vows for it to be official, engraved in permanence into Lockhart history.

Oh how she yearned for that day.

The only problem, was that he was not _here_.

Where was he now? When would he be coming back?

Lost in nostalgic longing, she did not realize that her feet had swept her to the corner seat of their own accord.

"Umm…" she found herself at a momentary loss of words, viewing a spiky crown of blond hair instead of eyes, "What would you like, mister?"

"One martini, thank you," he replied in clipped tones, still not looking at her. His voice, a boyish tenor as opposed to the silky baritones she was more accustomed to, was laced with an accent she did not recognize, wispy and faraway and reminiscent of ocean waves.

Her response was automatic, indiscriminate of the cool hostility that emanated from him.

"One martini coming right up."

She drifted to the stash of liquor bottles under the counter top, extracted and poured out the appropriate drink, then returned to the youth's side. Her heart leapt inexplicably when she saw that he had rotated his head to face her direction – was he going to drop the ice act and speak to her like a real person?

Sapphire orbs swiveled upwards to meet wine-red.

"Yes, miss?"

Unlike his previous words, these ones contained a fair amount of respect, if only the undercurrent of polite refusal was absent. Suddenly aware that she was still clutching his ordered glass of martini, she hastily set it down in front of him, before retracting her hand out of sight.

"Your drink, mister?"

"Thank you," he received her proffered glass with a nod, then turned slightly to break the directness of her gaze upon his.

Her feet refused to move away, however. This youth intrigued her greatly, from his strange bi-coloured clothes to his fluctuating levels of civility. Never before, in the span of the last four years, had she had a true respite from the monotony of the regular customer, save her beloved, and she wasn't about to dismiss this opportunity.

She must have been staring too long and too indiscreetly, though, because when he turned back to her, his eyebrows had disappeared into his messy fringe.

"I-I'm sorry," she apologized quickly, lowering her gaze in embarrassment before raising it to meet his once more. "It's just that… you remind me… of someone I knew."

His eyes, brilliantly blue like a drop of the purest sky – too blue – hung on hers for another instant, something intense flickering beneath the surface, before he tore away without prompt.

"I do?" His voice was soft, and unless she was deeply mistaken, incredulous. As though he knew whom to which she was referring to.

She retreated from him immediately. By his withdrawn demeanour, she realized that he hadn't expected her to answer him. Not that she felt any inclination to, anyway. Something in that look had disturbed her immensely, more so than his seemingly harmless question, and she concluded that, after all, some strangers were best left to be.

"Sorry… to have bothered you, mister."

--

-**-**- -**-**-

--

Long dreadlocks of unruly hair effectively shielding his eyes from view, Roxas glanced up as Tifa made her hasty exit – away from him. She was rubbing her bare forearms as though she felt the cold, despite the relatively warm temperature.

_Already she gets nervous around me. See? I told you this wasn't gonna work._

Her waist-length cascade of raven silk swaying gracefully behind her, she appeared to bustle around for something, and lifted it into the air in triumph when she located it. A tray.

_How on Gaia can I remind her of you? I'm nothing like you. All I have are my secrets to hide._

_Like the one that I'm here instead of you._

He had lifted the shot-glass of auburn intoxicant almost to his lips before he realized what he was doing, and abruptly set it down. One bad experience with alcohol was enough to put him off for the rest of his lifetime.

He snatched yet another glance at her. The aforementioned tray splayed precariously atop her outstretched palm, she delivered crystal goblets of sparkling liquid to pleased-looking clients about the place.

Was she actually _offering_ free drinks? Had he affected her _that_ badly?

Nevertheless, his eyes remained on her, transfixed. The corners of her lips were lifted in an angelic smile; sunlight filtering in through the open windows caressed her moon-bright skin, adding to her already lovely image a celestial aura that appeared to cast the rest of her surroundings in shadow.

_She's beautiful. Just like you said. _

Unbeknownst to every other soul in the bar, his face crumpled as his will dissolved before him. He would be less than a Heartless to shatter her carefully-preserved illusion of blithe unawareness with the brutality of truth.

_I can't do this. I can't tell her. It'll break her heart._

He habitually let his gaze roam to her, retreating to the safety of his drink whenever time dictated that another may believe something suspicious of him. At each glint of her ruby eyes, his chest tightened harder. However, he freely relinquished himself to the pain, drinking in every unspoken declaration of his guilt. As it was, the agony of heart-wrenching feelings was the very least of what he deserved.

_Cloud… why did you come to save me?_

_Why were you the one to die?_

--

-**-**- -**-**-

--

He spoke not another word for the duration of his stay. When he left, the glass of martini was still on the table, untouched.

Those were the unmistakable signs of one espying another, whether that be from a clandestine corner, or with an odd kind of subtle blatancy, like him. She could still feel the lingering touch of his gaze on her neck, heated with the intensity of some barely restrained emotion. Tentatively, she raised her hand to the spot, and found it burning hot.

Who was he? Why was he watching her like that?

What did he know about her?

Shuddering involuntarily, Tifa seized the next mug from beside the sink, and proceeded to wipe it with unearthly speed.

--

* * *

**A/N**: So there ya have it. Chapter One, nice and long. Love it? Hate it? Any itty-bitty thingamajigs that nag your mind? Tell me everything. 


	3. Chapter 2: As Revelations Unfold

* * *

-

**A**/**N**: I'm back. Apologies for the long wait. Yes, I know, it's been four months! Well, a combination of laziness, busy science course at uni plus general lack of motivation equals no story progress, so unfortunately, you guys had to suffer through an extensive period of regrettably-avoidable boredom (and for myself, a subsequent decline in popularity)… If a long, 6000+ word chapter isn't enough to stay your hand from hurling various metaphorical rocks of complaint and malicious intent at me, then I don't know what will.

In the meantime, I suppose I'll just have to content myself with playing Tifa's theme over… _Do La So La Do…_

So yeah, pretty long chapter ahead. Beware the angst. 

-

* * *

-

**C**hapter **2** – **A**s **R**evelations **U**nfold

--- ---

-

"Hey, Tifa. 'Bout time you'd gotten home."

"Hey, Zack."

Shutting the door firmly behind her, Tifa secured the latter with a practiced twist of keys in the latch, then turned around to face the direction of her greeter's voice.

A few steps forward took her into the small, slightly cramped quarters of her shared apartment. The pressure of economical living meant the barest of household luxuries, as exemplified by the compact, second hand TV set, a distinct lack of ornamental objects, and the threadbare, if comfortable-looking couch in the center of the room. And sprawled upon that particular couch was, of course, was the single host of her welcome party home – a young man whose idly-tapping fingers were probably the result of much tiresome waiting.

Upon hearing her approaching footsteps, he raised his head to look up at her. His soft lilac eyes – one of the more captivating features imparted from their late mother – were characteristically bright at this time of night, if unaccompanied by the equally characteristic glint of mischief. Unkempt spikes jutted out at odd angles from his mane of black hair, and looked in serious need of a comb.

Zachary Lockhart. Her beloved, if overgrown romp of a brother whom she still had to baby around. Being three years her senior at twenty-six didn't seem to do anything for his maturity levels, sadly enough.

As if to prove himself the epitome of scruffiness as her not-so-unbidden thoughts remarked, he yawned widely while running a hand through his messy hair, mussing it – if possible – into further disarray.

"If y-you w-w-wanna know where Yuffie's is," he mumbled midway through a second gaping yawn, interpreting her silence as a inquiry into the whereabouts of the youngest member of the household, "she's already in bed. Thank Gaia. I can't stand her singing at this hour."

Only half-listening, she gave him a slight smile in response to his comment before heading over to the kitchen to check for unwashed dishes – of which, to her mild surprise, there were none.

"Don't worry, I've done them already," his lazy drawl followed after her. "Figured you needed a break or some such."

She felt her lips draw upwards appreciatively. It had been a long day, and she was rather weary.

"Thanks, Zack."

The grin she envisaged to have decorated his face was quite apparent when she returned to the living room.

"See?" he smirked at her. "I am not as irresponsible as you believe me to be."

"Indeed, you are not," she replied offhandedly, too fatigued to bother scouring her mind for possible arguments against his not-entirely-true proclamation. Instead, she settled herself into a nearby couch, wincing as it sagged considerably beneath her weight.

It was only then that she realized the absence of noise (pollution) was due to the fact that the TV, Zack's usual source of entertainment at this late hour, remained turned off. Had the lack of interesting programs then, exacerbated his boredom so much so that he had to resort to household chores?

"So, how was your day today?" began anew his contented blathering. "Typically uninteresting? That was mine. Only a few boring Shadows to sweep; nothing particularly life-threatening. What else can you expect in full daylight?"

Well, whether the term 'typically uninteresting' fit the description of her day, was largely left to the opinion. There had been that rather… _unsightly_ encounter with a lewd-mouthed customer (which she need not mention, involved some form of fist-flashing), and lewder comments yet overheard (without any eavesdropping intention whatsoever) from a flock of liquor-giddy middle-aged women (whose table she had determinedly neglected to pass more than once), and of course, a certain youth's burning glaciers of eyes (which she had noted with dire apprehension, were locked relentlessly upon her the instant they entered into her bar). Things such as these (save the last) were fairly commonplace in her work routine – so yes, one _could_ call them 'typically uninteresting' and still be technically accurate…

But the youth…

"Well, am I miffed. No comment from you! I would usually have to stuff my ears to stop myself from hearing your latest, most glorious words of caution."

If she could remove him from the bar out of sheer distrust, then she most definitely would. While he did not exactly 'skulk around', keeping to his own (and nobody else's) business was surely a habit of his, as was hiding in the corner seat, and staring at her. In her belief, those were three perfectly legitimate (if unfortunately, not legal) examples of evidence towards a less-than-benevolent intent, and therefore, three reasons enough to oust him and be rid of his nerve-racking presence forever.

Or perhaps she had simply jumped to conclusions about his odd behaviour, grew worried at the hypothetical prospects, and subsequently, rationalized that throwing him out was the best option for maintaining a sufficient comfort level at her workplace.

So much for her 'give everyone a chance' approach she had prided herself upon since time began.

What was happening to her?

"Tifa! The Planet to Tifa! He-ey!"

Long, pale fingers were fluttering in and out of her line of vision – was someone waving at her? – eventually coalescing together to form the image of a rather irritated-looking Zack. He was poised on the edge of his seat, stretched forward in an attempt to catch her attention with the conventional means of hand-flapping.

"Huh?" she muttered stupidly.

Deciding that she had finally acknowledged his presence, said person sank back into the couch grumpily. "You do realize that not responding to clearly audible, successive questions multiply three, equals being rude?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Zack." By the softening in his expression, he had accepted the apology rather easily. So much for all that indignation. "I'm just… a little preoccupied at the moment."

"With _what_?" Irritation was still evident in his tone, although it was more directed at her current 'preoccupation' rather than her previous inattentiveness. "Some hiker came and tracked mud all over your bar and now you're plotting revenge?"

"Not quite… But there _is_ this really strange guy at the bar. From his first arrival two weeks ago, he hasn't been absent since. Not even the most regular customers come _that_ often."

Rolling his eyes, Zack slouched further into his seat. "Whaddaya know, he might _just_ be interested in you. _Maybe_ he's been checking you out all this while."

_Checking me out?_

Well, that was a possibility, if a rather flattering one. But the boy's scrutiny of her could hardly be described as a casual appraisal of her feminine assets; rather, it held the quality of dark emotion to it, of something more sinister and less benign. If anything, she had often sensed the pricklings of anger behind it.

As not to rouse Zack's curiosity further, she replied carefully, "It's still too early to assume that, I think."

"And why so?"

She shrugged a shoulder in mild disbelief. "I mean, how could it be possible? In less than two weeks?"

In direct contrast to her incredulity, Zack carried on in all blithe self-confidence. "Oh, 'tis very possible, my dear sister," he explained sagely, waving a hand for added emphasis. "Men are creatures of sight. See someone they like, and they go down like a lovesick drowned rat."

"'_Lovesick drowned rat_'?" She snorted. "Definitely not one of your more tasteful analogies."

"Oh? Maybe 'lovesick drowned _chocobo_' would suit your sense of aesthetics better, then?" Her eyes must have widened at the mention of the word 'chocobo', for he grinned knowingly at her. "Well, unfortunately for me," he continued in mock sullenness, laying a hand across his heart, "I so happened to be around every time Spike goes off with his head in the clouds, no pun intended… and pays absolutely no attention to me! And being the _good friend_ that I am, I ask what's bothering him, to which he goes all red in the face and mumbles something that sounds horrendously…_ similar _to the word_ 'Tee-fa'_, might I say…"

He paused to wrinkle his nose in apparent disgust, by which time Tifa was – rather flabbergasted.

Simple as the deed of thinking of another was to mention, it was infinitely heartwarming. To have your beloved say he thought about you was one thing, but to know that he actually _did_, was something else altogether. Of course, having him flustered and embarrassed at the same time (on account of you, no less) sweetened the story a good deal more than what was already delightful to begin with.

Nevertheless, the topic of Cloud often put her in depressing spirits as of late. The days keep flying by, and still there was no sign of his return – or his existence, for that matter.

"Which brings me back to my former argument," prattled on Zack, oblivious to Tifa's change in demeanour. "While Mr. You-Don't-Think-He's-Interested-In-You may not be head over heels for you, he, at the very least, likes what he's seeing, and I can assent to that from a male perspective, although…" he tapped two fingers against a square, clean-shaven chin, glancing at her sideways, "to put it otherwise would be rather disturbing indeed…"

"Zack…" she said warningly.

"And that would explain why he's coming back day after day, because the sight of you constantly plagues his mind and –"

"_Zack_," she interrupted more than a little firmly, certain that she had had enough, "you do realize, that despite whatever you say might be true, it is of no consequence? Nothing of that sort's ever gonna happen between him and I. _Nothing_."

Her brother looked deservedly taken aback. "But of course."

Tifa remained silent, however. To say she was annoyed would be to put it rather mildly. Many a time, in the squabbles shared by only siblings, had she turned taciturn for much more a reason than this, but in her current frustration she had affected not to care.

Meanwhile, Zack was looking more and more discomfited.

"Tifa?" he pleaded, his eyes crinkled with woeful remorse, his palms exposed in an appearance of honesty. "C'mon Teef, don't go all quiet on me. Zack says sorry?"

When she neither replied nor made any motion to, he swallowed once, as though in hesitation, then promptly got down on his knees before her. Which caused her to stare at him in bewilderment.

"Zachary Lockhart," he continued in the same, purposefully dejected tone, taking one of her hands and planting a kiss upon it, "idiot brother of Tifa Lockhart who babbles about too much crap, thereby makes his sincerest and humblest apologies to the dear offended lady here…"

Regaining some of her humour (for which image of an overly flamboyant, begging-for-forgiveness Zack would not?) she inputted, "So he can be forgiven, however undeservingly, for the bazillionth time?"

He glanced upwards cheekily, a bright twinkle in his eye. "Something like that."

"You are unbelievable, Zack."

Glad that he was back in her good books again, he flashed her a self-satisfied smirk. Then, with about the same amount of gracefulness of an overstuffed turkey in flight, he picked himself up from the ground and flopped back into his seat (which made _her_ smirk). A moment or two passed in silence, two moments undoubtedly too silent for Zack, for he made a somewhat ineloquent stab at keeping the conversational juices flowing.

"So, you wanna talk 'bout something else? Cloud?"

She sighed deeply. "To tell you the truth, Zack, I'm sick of having to talk about him. I'll much rather be talking _with_ him."

"Hey," he sighed likewise in empathy, "I miss him too. _But not that snippy black chocobo he's got_," he added, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "What's its name again? Ferzy? Furry?"

"_Fenrir_," she corrected.

"Oh yeah, _Ffeeenn-riiirr_," he drew out the word excessively, twisting it into a snarl of mispronunciation. She shook her head disparagingly. "That foul-billed fowl seems to bear a rather unhealthy grudge against my fingers…" He wriggled said digits emphatically, displaying bite scars.

Ignoring the latter, she retorted matter-of-factly, "That's 'cause you never treat him with respect."

He smiled self-indulgently. "That's 'cause _it_ never treats _me_ with respect. Call it 'reciprocal hostility', will you?"

"And you claim to be Cloud's 'best buddy', when you can't even get along with one of his close companions."

"Hey, everyone's entitled to their own opinion. And my opinion is: me plus black chocobo _does not_ equal friends."

"Hmph. You've hardly tried."

"First impressions are lasting ones, my dear."

Concluding that it was pointless to argue, she offered him a wan smile and said no more.

Which resulted (to her advantage, as she later discovered) in another bout of silence.

"So," he tried yet again at conversation, somewhat apologetically this time, "'bout that weird guy you'd mentioned earlier… What makes you think he's so weird?" She could almost hear the unspoken words '_if he's not acting like he's interested in you?_'

"Well, aside from his daily attendance… He doesn't speak a word more than he has to, and that obviously is for ordering his drink – plain martini, no other additions. And here's the really weird part – he never touches it. Not a drop."

"Hmm… It seems to me that he might be covering up for something. Spying on _someone_, perhaps?" That was a very noticeable and pointed wink he had thrown in her direction.

"I wouldn't call what he's doing 'spying'," she deadpanned. "More like 'glaring'."

"And the target of his so-called 'glaring' would be you, correct?"

"Yeah. And… between you and me," she hesitated; she did not like admitting to irrational fears, "the way he looks at me sometimes – it… _frightens_ me. It feels as though he's really angry, as though I'm the manifestation of something he hates – or the like."

The smug light in his eyes died out. "Like that, huh? Maybe a bad break-up with a ex that looks like you?"

_Oh Zack, will your totally uninspired conjecture of absurd stories never end?_

"Really, Zack," she replied lightly, her voice betraying none of the sting present in her mind's remark, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "For some inexplicable reason, I find myself unable to believe that."

He nodded deferentially; had she not known any better, she would have said he was agreeing with her. "Well, if you say so…"

"_Zack_…"

"Alright, alright!" He waved his hands in frantic apology. "Hmmm. How's this for a random question then: What's he look like?"

She sat up more alertly in her seat. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"In case he turns out fishy and I'll have to go and beat him up for you," jabbered on Zack nonchalantly, which earned a baleful glare from her.

"In that case, I'll have to skip his details, then. I can't have you assaulting my customers."

"Geez, Tifa, I was just kidding! His character just happens to slightly familiar, that's all."

"You serious? You know him?"

"Maybe, maybe not. First, you give me his description."

"Well," Tifa muttered, still eyeing Zack skeptically (would he really beat up one of her patrons? He was after all, quite protective of her), "he's really young, just past the legal age, I think –"

"You did not just serve a minor!" he interrupted sharply.

_Did I?_

Those blue tempests of eyes could belong to no child.

"No, Zack, I didn't," she affirmed, her tone a combination of self-assurance and persuasion. "How many times do I have to remind you of the security scanner in the doorway? Even Yuffie, with all her 'handy' skills that she yet has to unlearn, couldn't get past it. I'm telling you, he probably just looks younger than he really is, that's all."

Zack snorted. "And-he-comes-with-blue-eyes-and-spiky-blond-hair-and-looks-so-freakishly-like-Cloud-that-you-thought-for-one-blessed-second-it-could-really-be-him-until-the-weird-clothes-threw-you-off."

It took a while for Tifa to process that sentence – he had said all that in one single, rapid breath. "As a matter of fact, I'd noticed his unusual attire first, so the rest did not occur to me accordingly. But not that you've mentioned it," she paused momentarily in contemplation, "yes, he _does_ look a little like Cloud. A little."

Something lit up in Zack's eyes. "Ah, so it's the same person! I knew it couldn't be that much of a coincidence."

"You know him?" she pressed on excitedly.

"Yeah. New recruit," he flicked a hand non-committally, as though he had already lost interest in the subject. "Joined us two weeks ago – probably the same day he dropped by your bar for the first time – the timing fits, doesn't it? Dunno name – wasn't paying attention at the introductory session – what? There's no need for that look," for she had turned dagger-eyes onto him, "I'll find out soon! Anyway, newbies have to be broken into their routine carefully, so they get more daylight shifts – less chance of getting hurt.

"Well, dunno much 'bout him, but if you ask me, he doesn't look that much of a fishy character. Still, who knows what foreigners nowadays might be thinking? I'll keep an eye on him for you, how 'bout that?"

It was her turn for a seemingly deferential nod. "If _you_ say so…"

"Now, my d-d-dearest s-sister," he punctuated his sentence with a yawn for good measure, rising from his seat, "I shall have to bid thee goodnight. It's already quarter past twelve, and if I remember correctly, I'm on duty tomorrow, morning shift… or is it afternoon? I guess I don't remember correctly…"

More incomprehensible mutters trailed away as he departed for his room at the end of the corridor, before he reappeared, quite literally, again at her side.

"Uh, Tifa? Do you mind if I borrow Sorbet tonight?"

She felt her brows soar into her hairline. "Sorbet? You want to borrow _Sorbet_? Did I hear that correctly?"

"Ye-ah?"

For the uninformed, Sorbet was the term of endearment bestowed upon an otherwise plain, age-worn moogle doll she'd had ever since she was three. Sadly, 'age-worn' was the key description here. Not a scrap of visual integrity now remained to the once irresistible-to-touch stuffed toy; with its pom-pom leaking fluff everywhere, and its fur matted into tangled chaos – it was more a sore sight for eyes rather than the other way round.

How he could want such an undesirable thing, was beyond her.

"Why?" Now that was a question not entirely without purpose.

To her surprise, his lips clamped together into a rather painful-looking grimace. "That's 'cause Yuffie'd decided to do something unimaginably and utterly unforgivable to Gurdy two days ago," he muttered lowly, undertones thick with furious dismay.

"Oh?"

"That involved coloured inks and squiggles."

_And here I was, imagining something far worse._

"That's not utterly unforgivable, is it?" she concluded, somewhat consolingly, for her brother's benefit. "You could just wash her – "

"Of course, I'd _wash_ her!" cried Zack shrilly, the effects of his outburst partially lost due to the repressing of its volume. "Don't you think that'll be the first thing I'd do? But it was only later that I discovered stuffed moogles weren't _exactly_ washing-machine-proof!"

So, that would explain the suspicious flecks of white fluff she'd found scattered across her laundry yesterday…

In her muted realization, he extracted a box out of nowhere and thrust it before her. She looked at it blankly, awaiting some explanation. Sighing at her reaction, he removed its cover with a stiff jerk, revealing the contents to be none other than –

"A lump of tattered frizz and ribbons – that's all left of Gurdy now," he mumbled in despair, lifting up a frayed clump and watching it slip forlornly between his fingers. "I swear she knew I'd try that, ending up with this…"

When she failed to reply – what could one say to another who'd just had one of his most favourite possessions obliterated, and by his own hands at that? – he replaced the lid carefully, and set the box on the wall shelf in plain sight for all to view. An esteemed position designated for something precious, no less.

"Fear not, my beloved Gurdy," he said to the box, both solemnly and worshipfully at once, "You will always be close to my heart, whatever moogles had came before and shall come after."

Tifa was struck then with a sudden and inexplicable urge to laugh.

"What did you do to Yuffie to warrant this kind of vengeance?" She asked carefully, praying he would not notice the corners of her mouth twitching.

Fortunately, he did _not_ notice, too absorbed in his own self-pity as he was. "I'd rather not say…" he looked slightly guilty for a moment, before indignation resurfaced on his features again. "But the blame was mine; it's not fair that she had to take it out on Gurdy instead!"

She compromised. "Perhaps I'll go talk to her about it…"

"No-no-no-no… f-forget about it," he was not in the least hesitant about rejecting her offer, as any person with a less-than-easy conscience would. What _had_ he done to Yuffie? "Can you please, just let me borrow Sorbet?"

Playing for time of indecision, she toyed with a stray lock of hair.

"I'll think about it…"

But he, apparently, had no qualms of acquiescing with her delay whatsoever. "Please?" his plea sounded dangerously close to a wail. "I can't sleep without a moogle!"

She considered the view of a pouty-lipped, puppy-dog-eyed Zack for a moment, and decided that it was very persuasive indeed.

"Alright, alright," she gave in. Taking several strides into her nearby room, she extracted Sorbet from the corner of her bed, then returned and presented the latter to an eager Zack. He accepted the doll with gleeful hands.

"But with one very _reasonable _condition," she reminded, watching with combined amusement and exasperation as her brother immediately hugged the decrepit doll to his chest fondly. "As I'm already familiar with, small objects have a tendency to roll off your bed and onto the floor during the course of your sleep. Which is rather unhygienic, I might like to add. So, should I find Sorbet – "

"Don't worry, Teef," he murmured gratefully, still nuzzling _her_ moogle with a disturbing amount of affection, "I'll ensure nothing of that kind does happen."

She turned towards the bathroom. "You'd better be right about that, Zack."

It didn't matter anyway. As of late, she slept next to a blue-eyed chocobo doll she'd christened Lil' Cloud, but no one knew anything about that.

"Thanks a bunch, Teef," he called out softly from somewhere in the vicinity. 'Nite."

She smiled in the darkness.

"Goodnight, Zack."

-

-**-**- -**-**-

-

The hour was late, that time should wander but half an arc's turn to arrive at the dawn of dawns – midnight. As if in defiance of the soporific trance cast by the night's shadow, the materia globes of Seventh Heaven glowed steadily, even if their light be pale and artificial. Caught in the doom that was to traverse said place in endless circles, were the scents of man and alcohol, no doubt conspired by the twirling fans above.

If otherwise the animation of mechanical devices could be said to represent life's energy, all was still, empty.

For such was all. Save the less-than-relaxed cleaning-up activities of a certain bar hostess, not another soul moved. Gone was the background hubbub of common that crowded the walls; the sounds of clinking glasses, merry voices, and soft, atmospheric music all absent alike. In short, Seventh Heaven was, as of the moment, not the bustling bar it was reputed to be.

Here Roxas was, faithfully watching her just as he had promised.

His eyes flicked over to the clock by the wall. Twenty-eight past eleven. All of her patrons, surprisingly enough, had gone – he had experimented with late hours as of the last few days; they usually stayed up later than this. Perhaps she closed earlier on Monday nights? At any rate, it served to make his circumstance all the more inevitable.

He had stalled long enough. Already two weeks had come and gone, and procrastination would only make the delivery of his message more painful.

He was going to tell her. Tonight.

And so struck eleven-thirty, the noiseless shift of a slender clock hand downwards to the heart of eternity.

With a precision of punctuality most likely developed through years of scheduling – for she had not even glanced upwards to check the time! – she headed in his direction, intent on shooing him out of the bar.

"Umm, mister?" The pleasant, honeyed musk of vanilla tickled his nose. "The bar's closing down now."

She stood at the opposite side of his table, a respectable enough distance away, and still he fidgeted in his seat. Well, truth be told, any distance less than three feet between him and another would already cause his hackles to rise, but her the more so. It disgusted him how he could simply sit here and let his eyes rove across the expanse of her full, curvaceous figure, when she so clearly belonged to someone else, someone else, moreover, whose death he was responsible for.

Unable to meet those polished garnet orbs with his own, he trained his gaze to the bland glass top of the table.

"I know. I'll be going."

Ensuring that he heard the scuffles of her departing trainer-soled feet, he stood up and walked past the table, leaving his glass of martini ignored for yet another evening. The next word that sprang from his lips was nothing less than a fully deliberate, conscious act.

"Tifa."

The response was immediate. She froze abruptly, her dainty right ankle hoisted up in the midst of delivering the downward thrust that would propel her stride. So silent were their surroundings that he could hear the rustle of her skirt as it flapped against the back of her knees.

The extent of her reaction, the pause a little longer than necessary, was enough to label her startled to learn that he knew her name. However, given the popularity of the bar, and of course, the woman herself, being the sole proprietress as such, it shouldn't be a surprise at all.

_Why then, is she so –_

His attempt at reasoning out the above phenomenon was immediately dispelled when she responded.

"Y-yes?"

She had turned around to acknowledge him, and he was once again granted the view of her lovely face – a view that he had no right whatsoever to behold. But his mind was reeling too fast to give him the presence of mind to look away.

"Tifa," her name sounded foreign on his tongue, as though the very act of his enunciating it had tainted it. "There's something you have to know."

"Something… I have to know?" she repeated in that mellow, even-pitched voice of hers, positively dumbfounded.

_'Something you have to know' – couldn't have phrased that better, aye, Roxas?_ cackled one of the many disembodied voices in his head. 

Now even the products of his imagination were laughing at him.

"It's…" he started, then found himself at a loss. She was gazing at him, the slender column of her throat twisted laboriously in his direction, with something that looked akin to – should he say it – dreaded expectation? As though she knew the grievances he would inflict upon opening his mouth?

Indecision welled up in him, lingering for a moment before shattering.

_I can't do this. I just can't._

"F-forget it," he heard himself blurt out in all cowardice, as his gaze averted to the floor in a despicably similar fashion. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

Three steps forward would take him to her and ultimate calamity, ten steps back, the door and the hollow embrace of darkness' oblivion. He took the latter.

"Wait!"

His eyes fixed themselves upon the doorway – he was _only_ an arm's breadth from making his exit from this horrible predicament. Why did she have to go calling after him now?

"Don't worry," he tried to reassure her, if the lack of conviction in his tone coupled with the absence of eye-contact could be called reassuring. "It's nothing. Really."

As expected, she was not in the least reassured.

"Mister," she changed tactics, her voice adopting an oddly masked quality, which, nonetheless, failed to conceal the edge of desperation within, "you've been here everyday for two weeks now, and well, it's unusual that we still haven't been… properly introduced, as yet."

Surprised by the complete spontaneity of her words, he spun around. She blinked innocently at him; two veils of thick, dark lashes fluttering shut to conceal the glint in the ruby irises underneath.

"Would you… would you at least…" she continued, nervousness all too apparent in her tone and the tight clasp of her interlaced fingers, "grant me the pleasure of knowing your name?"

That was it? She wanted to know his name?

All Heartless included, and the Planet was undeniably the most cruel, conferring upon him a situation such as this.

So, she wanted to know _his_, _Roxas Fallista's_, name. The name of her lover's supposed friend-turned-killer no less, if not in those exact words. Of course, another could see as vividly as he how sitting here and exchanging pleasantries would not be the most appropriate course of action to take if he were to spare her the dreadfulness of his knowledge.

How he craved to toss his head back and laugh in bitter irony.

"It's not important. I'm nobody."

An elegant chocolate-hued brow lifted alarmingly high – she was obviously taken aback by his dismissive, if not altogether, insolent reply, to her polite request.

However, it seemed that she was yet to be deterred.

"Please," she entreated, her wrists upturned to him in a gesture of sincerity. Another man with less than chaste thoughts would have taken that single word, infused with so much meaning as it was, for more than just a mere invitation. Yet he only stood there impassively, wrapped in the cold armour of his own made aloofness as though to shield himself from her, from the touch of her humanity.

"Please. Just tell me your name, and I won't bother you anymore." Strange, how the tiniest elevation of pitch could alter one's voice so much.

Nevertheless, he chose to pay no heed. This disastrous attempt at a mission had long been overstayed.

Turning his back to her, he took a step further in the direction of the entranceway.

"Please!"

Silence engulfed them in the wake of her desperate call. He stopped then, shoulders slumped over in defeat.

What other option had he than to tell her? There was no way he could continue his wordless charade, with her knowing that he was on the verge of telling her something potentially important – crucially important, for that matter. And that was not to mention that he was also being absolutely discourteous (the third time round), if he were to walk away without responding to such a simply plea.

"My name's Roxas," he whispered, the simple act of pronouncing his name contorting his face with emotion. "Roxas Fallista."

And a sharp intake of breath behind him indicated that _that_, his name, was all it took for her to understand.

"You're… you're Roxas?" she gasped in astonishment. How Cloud could fail to describe adequately, in his letters, someone who looked so alike to him, would forever remain a mystery.

This time, he did not bother to ponder the above phenomenon. "I… I really should go."

He rushed forward, meaning to leave, but she caught his left wrist and held firm. The warmth of her fingers sent an uncomfortable pulse racing through his arm – so violent was the urge to wrench himself away that he actually shuddered with the effort of not doing so. Already his other hand had snaked towards the shoulder that bore the now non-existent hilt of _Dextron's_ cruel blade; he snatched it back down hastily.

Like a frightened child about to bear witness to a terrible sight, he turned around slowly, unwillingly.

Her wine-red jewels of eyes were shining. Shining with hope so pure, so untainted, so heart-wrenchingly innocent, for he had not, not even in the most miniscule of amounts, any comfort to placate such hope.

"If you're Roxas, you must know what had happened to Cloud," she gushed out frantically, her surprisingly strong grip bleeding heat into his wrist. "He hasn't contacted me in the last three months. No phonecalls, no letters, no nothing. I'm worried…"

He licked his lips in anticipation. Again the wooden floorboards at his feet seemed very interesting all of a sudden.

"Cloud… he… he's…"

Oh Gaia, how he _did not_ want to do this.

"He's gone," he finally managed to choke out. "I'm so sorry."

"He's… gone?" he heard her sweet voice tremble ever so hesitantly over the two words, much like one chancing a step into forbidden territory and knowing what vile punishment lay ahead. Her hand slackened its grip around his wrist, falling back slowly to her side in a self-protective manner. "No, he can't be. You're lying."

_If only I were…._

He glanced up to meet her gaze, to unveil the horrific truth of his words in his eyes. She flinched away from them, taking a step backward unconsciously.

"He's gone, Tifa."

But the truth did not seem to register in her mind.

"No, he's not gone!" she blurted desperately, disbelievingly. Her hands had clenched into fists, as though she was arming herself to fight, nonetheless, a losing battle against a fate she did not want to accept. "You're lying! How can he be gone, when I'm still waiting here for him?"

He said nothing. What consolation was there to offer, he being already devoid of hope?

Unsatisfied with his reply, she lunged forward and seized a handful of his coat, bringing their faces mere inches away from each other. Her short, rapid gasps for breath wafted past his neck in hot trails, causing him to shiver involuntarily. At this distance, he could easily see how her beautiful dark eyes were overbright, rimmed with moisture – a dam on the brink of shattering.

Vanilla, sweet and ever so delicately spiced, overwhelmed his senses.

"Tell me he's not gone!" Her persistent denial, while admirable for its vehemence, was so, so hopelessly futile. "Tell me he's coming back! Please, Roxas, tell me, tell me Cloud's…"

"I'm sorry, Tifa." He bowed his head in resignation. "I can't."

"No…"

Having to suffer through a friend's death was difficult, but returning to inform his beloved of such, was possibly the most painful thing he had ever had to experience.

Especially when he could fabricate no lies that would ease the pain of her impending torment.

"No… it can't be true," she insisted a little more weakly now, her initial vigour present as only slivers in her voice. Likewise, the strength in her grip faded, enough so for him to (gratefully) separate himself from her. "It just can't be. I refuse to believe it – "

"It's the _truth, _Tifa," he overrode her more harshly than he intended, and instantly regretted it by the look of hurt in her eyes. Softening his next words came with some effort, but the rancor of bitterness lingered nonetheless. "The Heartless took him. I saw it with my own eyes."

_But I went after them. He was only trying to pull me back. I as good as killed him myself._

_He was even gonna come back and propose to you… but now…_

_I had caused all of this…_

"I don't believe you," she maintained stubbornly, as though she would much rather argue with him for eternity, than face the grim reality that was his world. "He can't be gone! He'll be back one day, just you wait –"

"Tifa," he said resolutely, holding her fast with his hard gaze. "He's not gonna come back. Not ever."

To prove the validity of his words, he reached into a pocket and retrieved its contents, revealing none other a ring. It was adorned with a stylish carving of a wolf's head, and together with its gleam of empyreal luminosity attributed to only mythril, left no doubt of its fine workmanship.

"_Her gift to me. She'd always said I reminded her of a wolf._"

Even if he knew not the true significance of the metallic band he now held in his palm, her soft exhalation and sharp widening of eyes were confirmation enough that _she_ knew, that _she_ understood.

It was finished. She could deny his words no longer.

With a gentleness he could scarcely confess to be his own, he lifted one of her hands, soft and entirely too warm against his cold, clammy ones, and sealed the silvery token into its fingered embrace.

Then he took a respectful step back, and waited. For there was nothing left for her, save the inevitable moment of acceptance, an acceptance that which they both knew, would send her world crashing down upon her.

Slowly, like the ill-fated bloom of a springtime rose deep in the black of winter, her closed fist unfurled, each finger a silken petal laid bare. The guileless twinkle of metal hovered in the air for one brief second, before vanishing abruptly in her clenched hand once more. Her eyes, he noted, with a rush of guilt and pity so vast it threatened to swallow him, were clamped painfully tight. Clamped, as though she was trying – in vain – to clamp down the awakening of her grief, of which he had not a clue of measure, but every clue of how it would destroy her.

"No."

A pearl of hot liquid slipped down one cheek, then another.

"_No_…"

With a muffled sob, she turned around and fled.

But the confines of enclosed walls would let her run only so far, and she slammed hard into the unyielding wood of the bench counter.

"Tifa!" he exclaimed in alarm, rushing to her side.

Through rapidly misting eyes, he watched as she swayed precariously on her feet, then crumpled into a pathetic heap on the floor. His heart broke afresh when he saw that she had not winced, cried out, or made any indication otherwise that she had experienced the pain of her previous collision. So incomparable, so overwhelmingly immense, must the pain _within_ her be instead, that all other sensations were rendered void in its deafening grasp.

In the wake of her anguish, he could only call her name softly, sadly.

"Tifa."

She did not look up at him. Her arms were hugged protectively around her knees, so much so to the point of restraint, for the tremors that shook her body with each sob would surely have erupted in violent writhing had they not been suppressed. Like a once-majestic crown robbed of all its splendor, her raven hair hung limply across her face, shielding her eyes from him. And mercifully so, because he did not know if he could bear the sight of the depravity that was despair besmirching their beautiful mahogany depths.

Her words arose from tragic breath, a song sadder than sorrow.

"This… c-can't be happening. Cloud… he – he p-promised to come back. H-He promised…"

_But he broke his promise._ **I**_ broke his promise._

Feeling that he, at the very least, owed her a gesture of consolation, he reached out with a tentative hand to comfort her. What he had not been expecting was for her to draw back sharply in response.

"Leave me alone!" she cried shrilly, retreating further away from him and deeper into the fetal position she had curled herself into. Nonetheless, she must have registered his shock, (and he found it remarkable, that she, in her current condition, _had_) for when she spoke again, her voice was softer but no less wracked with pain.

"G-Go, just go, p-please…"

Feeling no compellation as to disobey, he cast one last glance at her pitiful, weeping figure, before wearily moving away. After all, why should he fool himself to believe that she would suffer his presence longer than necessary? He couldn't offer peace to her bleeding heart. A stranger never could.

_Cloud, Tifa. I'm sorry. I really am._

_But I don't deserve your forgiveness._

With that morose thought in mind, he pushed past the doors of Seventh Heaven and into the cool night air. Even if he would never permit himself to do so, for it was writ into his bones as a foolish, self-indulgent act, he felt like crying too.

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TBC…

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**A**/**N**: So there you have it, Chapter 2. Oh, the endless squabbles between siblings. Ends on a rather depressing note, I know. By the way, the moogle names, Gurdy and Sorbet, are borrowed from the new addiction that is called FFXII (perhaps one of the more justifiable reasons why I had not been dutifully writing for my readers' contentment).

So be nice and leave a review. Cookies to anyone who can guess what'll happen next.

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